See Me
by Mandelene
Summary: One accident and a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time is all it takes to send Arthur's life into a tailspin. They say it's always darkest before the dawn, but maybe there's only darkness. (FACE family AU)
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** This story was requested by saraalmezel on Tumblr, and I should have written it a long time ago. I'm sorry for being behind schedule. Expect this to be a three-shot. I hope you guys enjoy it and remember to leave a review if you can, so you can let me know what you think!

* * *

Today, Arthur Kirkland will be within an arm's length of Death.

He will get dressed for work, put on his blue jacket and silver badge, straighten his cuffs and his collar, kiss his husband goodbye, get into a patrol car, get called to the scene of an apparent natural gas leak at an apartment complex, stand beside another officer and a truck full of firefighters, and witness the searing light show of an explosion that will knock him to the ground several feet away. The orange-glow of flames will wash over him in a blur, and his skull will connect with the concrete of the curb behind him.

And he will think of his children. Oblivious to the pains and burns all over his body, he will see Alfred and Matthew at the forefront of his mind—will have the sudden urge to sob at how big they've gotten. He will remember the terrible argument he'd had with Alfred last night—the knocked over chairs and empty words and how Francis stood in between them. Dear God, that boy's breaking him.

As a pre-med dropout saddled with over forty thousand dollars in student loan debt, the only thing the young man's got going for him is the somewhat reasonable pay he gets from his job working at the fitness gym downtown. When he'd first made the decision to leave school, Arthur had been angry, to say the least. How could he throw away his future like this? He could've been a great physician making _great_ money, but no, a third of the way through his second term, Alfred decided medical school was not the road he wanted to pursue.

Of course, Arthur and Francis had allowed him to come back and live with them in a heartbeat—there's always a place for the boys here, no matter the circumstances. They're more than happy to let Alfred stay with them as long as he needs to, and when he chose to take the semester off to re-evaluate his dreams, Arthur had tried to be as understanding and accommodating as possible, but now one semester has turned into two, and Alfred has gotten involved with some girl neither Arthur nor Francis approve of, and she's pulling Alfred even further away from potentially going back to his studies.

So while Matthew has diligently been working toward getting his degree in early childhood education out in a university in Toronto, Alfred has been causing nothing but trouble in the suburbs of Pennsylvania, accomplishing a whole lot of nothing with no intentions of making any changes. Arthur thought he'd finished raising teenagers, but apparently, his almost twenty-year-old son is stuck acting like he's sixteen.

And Arthur lies there on the asphalt of the smoldering road, limp and semi-conscious as he recalls all of this with growing frustration, thinking he might leave this goddamned earth without ensuring that both of his children will manage without him. Alfred still needs a firm hand to discipline him, so he can't just curl up and die now, can he? He didn't rear the boy for over nineteen years just to watch him transform into an eternal couch potato. No, absolutely not.

He feels blood trickle down his temple but can't reach up a hand to swipe it away. Mouthfuls of black smoke fill his lungs, scorching them, and someone drags him a few meters by gripping his legs—his wounded legs.

"It's gonna be okay, officer… Gonna be okay."

Arthur groans and coughs until it feels like he's going to break a rib, and someone presses an oxygen mask over his nose and lips, filling his chest with gloriously sweet and clean air. He had planned to retire from the force in a few years, and now it seems like that moment might grace him sooner rather than later.

"Deep breaths…"

He cracks open his eyes, only to be met with more darkness, and that's when he realizes he can't see. He can't _see_. He's blind.

He gasps for more air and panics, thrashing slightly. His heart rate soars, and he pushes back against what he assumes are the prying hands of a paramedic.

"Whoa, whoa! Easy now! Hold still!" the paramedic shouts, and Arthur feels his jacket being fiddled with. "Arthur," the paramedic sighs out his name, reading it off his badge. "Arthur, I need you to stay calm for me. You're gonna get the help you need. Just relax."

Arthur's arm seizes up as it's sterilized with an alcohol pad and a needle presses itself deep into his muscles—heavenly painkillers. He'd better not die, or he swears he'll be rolling in his grave for the rest of the century.

"There you go. Feeling better? Hang on and try to stay awake."

He shudders, body writhing on a stretcher. He can't see. He can't see.

"I'm going to check your eyes now. Don't move."

Gloved fingers pull down each of his lower lids in turn, and he waits to see an image—for something to materialize in front of him, but nothing does.

"All right, Arthur, you're doing great. Keep it up," the paramedic says reassuringly, gently wiping a cool cloth over his forehead and around his eyes. "Just cleaning you up a bit… Your heart rate's going up again. You're going into shock. Take some more deep breaths and try to relax."

Arthur rasps through the oxygen mask, "M-My family."

"We'll contact your family for you, and you'll get to see them soon," the paramedic insists softly, and the stretcher shakes slightly as the ambulance makes a sharp turn. "Almost at the hospital… Stay awake, Arthur. Can you still hear me?"

No. The darkness eats him up, and by the time his ears can register sound again, he's already in the burns unit, getting doused in lidocaine and cooling gels. Hot… His skin must be on fire. He blinks against the darkness and still nothing.

"Suspected retinal detachment in both eyes and vitreous hemorrhaging," someone says, towering over him. "Give him more morphine and get a surgeon down here."

"My family," he moans again as a soft bandage gets wrapped around his abdomen.

"It's okay," another person responds, patting his shoulder.

A gloved hand touches his eyes again, except this time, the pain is excruciating, and he screams, breaking out into a clammy sweat until falling unconscious.

* * *

"Oh, Arthur. Arthur, _mon amour_. It's okay. You're safe."

He knows that voice—has loved it for over twenty-five years. "F-Francis."

"I'm right here, _cher_."

"Francis, I can't see," he groans for what feels like the hundredth time, smacking his dry lips.

"I know, Arthur. I'm sorry. I'm _so_ sorry, _mon coeur_. It's all right. You're going to be all right."

A plastic cup of water is held up to his mouth, and he takes a greedy drink from it, flinching at how sandpaper-like his throat is when he swallows. He reaches up a hand to touch his face, feels the IV in his arm…

"Don't touch it, darling. It needs time to heal."

"H-How bad?"

"A broken arm, burns on your legs and abdomen, and..." Francis trails off, unable to finish without revealing the thick emotion in his tone.

"Have my eyes been burned?"

"Yes, somewhat, but they were also hit with debris. You were suffering from a small concussion earlier, but that was a few days ago."

Arthur feels his heart stutter and his stomach drop. "A few days ago? How long have I been here?"

"Four days. You've been mostly delirious and sedated from the pain medication. The burns are beginning to look a little better."

Arthur covers his mouth with one hand and feels an urgent need to throw up. Thankfully, Francis holds something up to his chin as he vomits, stopping him from being sick on himself.

"Shh, shh," Francis soothes when it's over, cleaning his face with tissues. "It's okay. The doctor said you might feel a little uneasy after rousing."

"A little?"

Francis pecks a kiss to his temple and says weakly, "I've been worried sick about you, as have the boys. Alfred was here a few hours ago, but he had to leave for work. Matthew will be flying in at the end of the week to visit."

Arthur clutches a handful of his bedsheets in a fist and betrays some of his feelings of fear as he asks, "Is it permanent? The blindness?"

Francis takes a moment to respond. "It's hard to say until your eyes begin to heal. We'll have to wait for an answer. The doctor said you'll be meeting with an ophthalmologist over the next few weeks, and they should be able to give us a better idea of what to expect. You underwent surgery because there was damage to your retinas, but we don't know how much of your vision was saved. Right now, you need to rest and take it slow. You've been through a lot of physical stress."

Arthur raises his hands to his eyes again, and this time, Francis doesn't stop him. He thinks he can feel himself crying, but he can't be sure because of the bandages covering his eyes. His tears are absorbed by the bandages, but a few of them manage to slip past and roll down his cheeks.

Instantly, as if by magnetic pull, Francis rises and embraces him, minding his injuries. His husband buries his face in his hair and mumbles sweet nothings and apologies to him over and over again, wishing he could magically absolve him of the pain somehow. "I love you… We'll get through this. It's going to be okay. What matters is that you're _alive_ and _here_ ," he emphasizes, pressing kiss after kiss to Arthur's head.

"I-It was all a stupid accident," Arthur manages to choke out against Francis's shoulder. "A damned gas leak… What happened to the others?"

Francis tenses and mumbles, "Don't worry about that for now. Let's focus on making you better, _mon cher_."

"I want to know, Francis."

"The other officer that was with you is in critical condition at the moment… It doesn't look promising," Francis finally reveals, holding Arthur a little more tightly. "I'm sorry…"

They stay in each other's arms for a good while, and when the nurse steps in to take Arthur's vitals, she retreats and says she'll be back in a few minutes, giving them some temporary peace.

"I'm glad it was me… I'm glad it happened to me instead of you. If you had been working today instead—I don't think I could've lived with myself," Arthur mumbles tiredly, curling his fingers around Francis's middle.

Francis clicks his tongue at him and murmurs, "Don't say that. We're both police officers. We do this despite the risks involved. It's our duty."

Arthur doesn't respond and simply lets himself drowsily fall back into a fitful doze with Francis running a hand through his hair. He can't see… He may never be able to see again.

The full impact of this revelation hasn't completely hit him yet. He's too fatigued to really understand the implications, which he supposes is a good thing for now. He slumps against Francis's arms, feels himself being lowered back to his pillows, and sighs.

"Sleep, Arthur… You need it."

* * *

Going home has never been this hard.

He's given a walking stick before leaving the hospital to help him get around. The only problem is he's not sure how to use it effectively and has to rely on Francis to guide him along the hallways anyway. It doesn't help that his left arm is in a sling, rendering every accidental bump and jostle painful.

Francis drives them home, helps him maneuver his way from the garage to the front door, and directs him inside. Stubbornly, Arthur hopes to retain some of his integrity by attempting to take off his coat on his own, except he fails in this endeavor as well and succeeds only in agitating his already fractured arm. In the end, Francis helps him out of the blasted sleeves of the coat and eases off his shoes, scolding him for pushing himself.

Immediately after the lecture, clobbering footsteps approach, and Arthur wishes lightning would strike him then and there because he really doesn't want anyone to see him in this state, even if it is just Alfred.

He's not sure what to say to the boy, especially since they haven't been on the best of terms lately, and he ends up standing there awkwardly, bandages blessedly concealing any betrayal of emotion in his expression.

Nothing happens for a few, long seconds. It's just silence, until finally, Alfred steps forward and carefully hugs him, winding his arms around his shoulders.

"Hey, there, old man," the boy jokes brokenly. "It's good to see you're on your feet again. Papa and I were worried."

Arthur nods and bites his lip, thinking of things to say but still failing. He returns the hug as best as he can with one arm and clears his throat, feeling a little silly for reasons he can't explain.

"I'll bring him up to bed, Papa. I know you have some errands to take care of."

Francis hums in agreement. " _Oui_ , that would help. Thank you. Oh, and I could use some help changing the bandages later, Alfred, before he falls asleep."

Arthur frowns and adds, "I'm right here you know. Just because I've lost my vision doesn't mean I can't handle my own affairs or that I can't hear all of your fussing. The visually impaired can be quite self-sufficient, and I'd appreciate a little more independence from you both."

Francis scoffs. "While that may be true, not everyone who is blind also has a broken arm and numerous second-degree burns across their body. Not to mention you're still recovering from what was considered major trauma, so it's in your interest to let us take care of your health for now."

The sodding Frenchman is too adept at countering his arguments—a side effect of their marriage.

Not granting him the opportunity to keep bickering, Alfred grips his uninjured arm and begins the arduous process of guiding him up the stairs, slowing down when Arthur stumbles midway and needs a second to brace himself on the adjacent wall.

"Baby steps. Where are you in such a rush to get to?" Alfred teases, and Arthur can hear the strained grin he's probably wearing. "You okay?"

"Fine," Arthur snarls, swearing loudly when he accidentally misjudges the width of the staircase and smacks his broken arm against the banister.

"Careful, Dad. You're already injured enough."

He scales the final stair. Good God, everything hurts. His legs and abdomen are stinging and itching from the healing burns, his arms feels as though it's been crushed by steel, and his eyes are definitely swollen, bruised, and scorched. "I need to sit," he pants.

Alfred carries the brunt of his weight and encourages him to keep walking down the hall and into the bedroom. "Almost there, you're about to cross the threshold—take a big step over it… That's it. Lower yourself onto the bed slowly. You won't fall. I've got you."

He safely finds the bed and perches himself on the edge, not accustomed to figuring out depth without the help of his eyes. "I can take it from here."

"Don't be stubborn. Let me help you change into something comfortable, and then we'll get to work on your bandages."

"I'm fine, Alfred."

"No, you're not."

"Please, I just need some space at the moment. Everyone has been crowding around me, and I can't stand it."

Alfred sighs and begins to argue, but he gives up soon after, and Arthur supposes it's due to either pity, sympathy, or both. "All right," he concedes. "How about I help you change, and then I promise to leave you alone for a while?"

"All right."

Alfred sorts through the clothes in the dresser, returns to Arthur's side, and starts tugging his shirt off, carefully pulling it over his head. It's not an easy task, considering he has to first remove Arthur's broken arm from its sling, and then ease the appendage through the sleeve. He apologizes when the fabric gets snagged a few times and has to be untangled.

He would have made a good doctor, truly.

Arthur sits there resignedly and waits for it to be over, head drooped and shoulders hunched. He's reverted back into being as helpless as a child—can't do a damned thing for himself after all. As much as he wants to parade around and proclaim he's able to take care of himself, he's coming to terms with the reality that he's going to be relying on the assistance of others for the foreseeable future. Even when he was a young boy, he would seldom ask for help. He had to assert his self-reliance at all times. It was the only way to survive in a household where he was always the youngest of four.

"Do you want to know what I did when I first found out you were in the hospital?" Alfred suddenly asks, interrupting his sulking.

"Hmm?"

"I felt guilty for fighting with you the other night… I wasn't sure if you knew how much I appreciate everything you and Papa have been doing for me, even though I suck at showing it sometimes. Everything that's been going on has nothing to do with you. I'm just at war with my own head right now," Alfred says with a feather-light chuckle, standing Arthur up for a moment to help him into some flannel pajama pants.

Something in Arthur's chest swells, and he sighs as Alfred helps him sit back down again.

"I worry about you, Alfred," he says at last, lying back and leaning into his pillows.

"I know," Alfred whispers before making his way to the door. "I'll be back with Papa in a bit. Those bandages still need changing."

Arthur gives a small nod and pulls the covers over himself, feeling chilled. "Alfred... You should know that, contrary to what you may have thought in the past, I only want you to be happy."

"I can't believe you just said that to me," Alfred abruptly snaps back, sounding genuinely angry and insulted. "Why don't you stop thinking about everyone else, and worry about yourself for a change? You're _blind_ , Dad, and you're still thinking about whether or not I'm the one who's happy?"

"I'm—"

"Just shut up. No, I'm not happy, Dad, but you shouldn't be the one to have to fix that." Alfred huffs, but his anger isn't mean-spirited. It's more like exasperation riddled with a hint of concern. "Get some rest."

He leaves, and Arthur is finally free to appreciate the solitude he'd claimed to have wanted, but for some reason, everything feels lonely and secluded. Lying alone in bed with nothing but darkness all around and complete silence aside from a thud or the sound of shuffling feet downstairs makes him feel worse. He realizes that without anyone by his side, he's defenseless. He probably couldn't even get up right now to go to the bathroom on his own. He'd trip and likely knock out all of his teeth or fracture another brittle bone in his body.

"Francis," he calls forlornly into the black void ahead of him. "Francis..."

He doesn't think anyone hears him, until the bedroom door creaks open and the cold isolation is shattered. He swallows hard and reaches out an arm to touch Francis, yearning to feel his skin against his—to tell him he's here. He's here, and he's not going to leave him alone in this endless darkness.

"Yes, _mon amour_? Did you need something?"

A little embarrassed to have disturbed his husband without a plausible excuse, Arthur sniffs and tries to come up with something off the top of his head. "Could you bring me some water, if it wouldn't be too much trouble?"

"Of course, _cher_. Give me one minute okay? I'll be right back."

"Wait!"

"Yes?"

"Never mind..."

He can feel Francis's eyes on him. "I'll only be gone for a moment. Do not worry."

It is hard to judge how much time passes without visual cues. A minute feels like ten, and an hour may as well be half the day. He discovers this as he falls victim to a brief nap, only to wake up to two pairs of hands removing the gauze from each of his eyes. A chorus of hisses fill the room as Francis and Alfred assess the damage, and when Arthur weakly asks how severe it is, they shush him and tell him it'll all be just fine—that recovery takes time along with a bunch of other platitudes that don't do much to calm him.

"I'm going to put this ointment the doctor prescribed you on your eyes now. I'll try to be gentle," Francis warns him before gliding his hands over the sensitive area, spreading the gooey cream liberally. It tingles at first, and then it reawakens the ferocity of the burns.

"Try to hold still, Dad."

Arthur jerks a couple of times throughout the application, but he does his best to be cooperative. Eventually, fresh gauze and bandages are placed over his eyes, and he's left to rest again. His fear of being abandoned in the room again ignites once more, but he doesn't have the courage to ask someone to stay with him. He lies completely still, sick with anxiety at what comes next—at whether or not he'll ever be able to achieve some sense of normalcy in his life again.

He doesn't venture out of the room for the remainder of the day. The clock on the nightstand tick-tocks away, and he can't bring himself to do anything. His world has stopped while everyone else's keeps going about its way.

"How are you doing, _cherie_? Would you like your dinner in bed?" Francis asks when he comes up to check on him, clearly worried that Arthur hasn't committed even a single act of resistance to try and return to his daily activities, something that's generally been customary when he's been under the weather in the past.

"Not hungry…"

"You need to eat to recover," Francis murmurs, taking a seat next to him on the bed before rubbing his back in a brisk, up-and-down motion. "The doctor didn't say you have to be bedridden. You can come downstairs and eat with the Alfred and me."

One-worded responses are all he can muster the strength for at the moment. "Tired…"

"I know, but it'll ease all of our nerves if you come downstairs. You can't stay cooped up in this room forever. You can go right back to bed after dinner, if you'd like."

"I can't…"

"Why not?"

Because he can't feed himself, that's why. With only one usable arm at his disposal and zero vision, there's no conceivable way he'll be able to use a knife and fork to successfully eat a meal. He won't even be able to see his plate, and even if he does eventually adjust, there's going to be a window of trial-and-error in which he'll definitely end up making a mess and dropping food on himself or the floor.

"I told you, I'm not hungry," Arthur lies.

"So you're just going to sit here and mope?"

"Yes."

"Arthur," Francis sighs, carding a hand through his hair. "I know this isn't easy, and I can't imagine what you must be feeling right now. I know this is hard… It's going to be hard for all of us, but I have faith that we'll get through this. We just need to push onward."

He's crying again. It's so pathetic.

Francis tuts and pulls him close, pushing his forehead to rest against the gap between his neck and his chest. "It's okay to be upset."

"I'm sorry."

"Shh, don't be… Alfred and I are here for you, and Matthew will soon join us. You don't have to cope with this alone, so please come downstairs, okay?"

Arthur nods, sinking against the soft touch of Francis's hand on the back of his head. "Okay."

Francis leads him away from the bed, down to the base of the steps, and over to the kitchen, where Alfred is already sitting, waiting for them.

Arthur hears the clank of a glass plate being set in front of him with steaming food on it after he's seated. He bites his lip and feels around for a fork, trying to be discreet about it, but failing when he ends up finding his mashed potatoes instead and dirties the tips of his fingers. He just barely manages to keep from swearing.

From his left, Alfred pats his shoulder and cleans his hand off with a napkin. "Need some help?"

Arthur stares down in the general direction of his plate and glares. His better judgment tells him to utter a simple yes, but his mouth doesn't comply.

"Here," Alfred murmurs, moving around some silverware before pressing a forkful of potatoes to Arthur's lips. "Open up."

"I don't need you to feed—mmphh!" Arthur growls, nearly choking when the potatoes are roughly shoved into his mouth. He obediently chews and swallows, coughing when he's done. Why did he decide to adopt children all those years ago? They were supposed to take care of him in his old age, but it's a little too soon for that. If this is what he can expect when he's ancient and can't take care of his own bodily necessities, he's not looking forward to it. End it now.

"Good job," Alfred says playfully, and for a split second, Arthur considers stabbing him with the fork, but he quickly casts the thought aside because he really is quite famished, and apparently, it's not socially acceptable to stab your own child with kitchen utensils. "Yummy, right? Here, have some more."

"Alfred," Arthur finds himself growling as more food gets shoveled into his mouth against his will.

"Here comes the train, Dad."

From across the table, Francis has the nerve to laugh—traitor.

"All right, all right," Alfred consoles, suppressing his bout of snickers. "I won't tease you anymore. You really should finish the rest of this though."

So, Alfred and Francis alternate between making sure his dinner actually ends up in his digestive tract and not all over his face, and Arthur doesn't have the option to protest. If he complains, he'll have to go to bed hungry, and while that might seem like a small price to pay to maintain his dignity, he knows that if he chooses to fight this battle now, he'll just have to repeat it in the morning when it's time for breakfast. Better to get used to this unfortunate eating routine now.

He gets through most of his plate, and then, he rises from his chair and does his best to carry his dishes over to the sink. Surprisingly enough, he handles that small task wonderfully. The plate, indeed, ends up in the sink. However, he also manages to knock over a glass that's sitting innocently on the counter, and it shatters, startling everyone.

"Bloody—!" he hisses through gritted teeth, good hand turning into a fist at his side. He can't live like this. It's impossible. He's going to go mad.

Francis swiftly grabs him by the elbow and steers him away from the wreckage. "You could've just left everything on the table. I don't expect you to be doing any chores," he chides while checking to make sure Arthur hasn't cut himself on any of the glass.

He's shaking with frustration, and Francis can tell. He's never taken well to being told he can't do something.

"Why don't you go back to the bedroom, _cherie_? I'll join you in a minute. Take your father upstairs, Alfred. He's being difficult."

"Difficult?" Arthur fumes.

"How about I take him out on the porch, instead? Some fresh air might help," Alfred suggests, escorting a grumbling Arthur to the front door.

And the boy's right, it does help. The cool breeze outside calms him, and he leans himself against the railings of the porch, miraculously managing not to hurt himself in the process.

"You know, I wish I had actually gone to med school, maybe then I'd be of some help," Alfred sighs after a moment, straightening out the strap of Arthur's sling, which has apparently been slipping off his shoulder. "You okay? Do you need to sit down?"

Arthur shakes his head. "I'm fine, thank you."

"Hey, Dad? Did… Did you always know you wanted to be a cop?"

He'd expected Alfred to ask him this question eventually, and it's good that he's asking him this now. It takes his mind off of everything else. "No. Once upon a time, I fancied the idea of studying philosophy."

Alfred lets out a breath of laughter. "A philosopher? That's a pretty big jump. Why'd you change your mind?"

"Philosophy doesn't pay the bills, nor does it put bread on the table."

"But what if it made you happy?"

"It's important to be happy, but it's also important to be practical," Arthur replies, smoothing a hand over his bandages. "Besides, philosophers are too high-class for me. I'm too old for posh formalities and idealistic discourse. Speaking of philosophers, I wonder how Matthew is doing."

Alfred hovers close by and says, "I'm sure he's fine. He's the type of person that always has his life together. He's going to freak when he sees you, though. If you think Papa and I are smothering you, just wait until Matt gets here... Come on, let's head back in, you're shivering."

* * *

Non-24 Sleep Disorder—a confusing set of words that simply means Arthur can forget about sleeping at regular intervals and getting tired when the sun sets. He lies wide awake next to Francis, waiting for his mind to tire, and he suddenly regrets taking all of those naps throughout the day. He's facing the consequences now.

He tries to stay very still because Francis has work tomorrow—a twelve-hour shift—and he really doesn't want to be the cause of him not getting any rest either. He can't even check the time to know exactly how late into the night it is.

But Francis's intuition strikes again, and he fitfully tosses and turns in bed for a moment, as though something isn't sitting well with him, and he knows there's trouble nearby. Perhaps it's a sixth sense all law enforcement officials have.

"Arthur? Are you awake?"

"Yes."

"Can't sleep?"

"Don't worry," Arthur reassures, lying flat on his back. He'd tried resting on his side, but the burns on his legs didn't appreciate the position.

Francis isn't so easily convinced. He rolls over, presses his lips against Arthur's forehead, and murmurs, "If you can't sleep, I won't be able to sleep either."

"Who's being difficult now?"

He can feel a smile stretch across Francis's face, skin pulling outward. "I'm not being difficult. It's just part of being in love."

"Mm, how sentimental of you."

"Can't you see how madly in love I am with you?"

"It may have slipped your notice, but I can't see anything."

"Stubborn man, you don't need eyes to see love," Francis mutters cheerfully, taking Arthur's hand and placing it over his own chest, right above his heart. "Don't you see it? The jumping sparks, the rays of warmth, the flow of affection—all proof of loving someone. It's as clear as day, Arthur."

"I don't see anything," Arthur harrumphs dismissively.

"You're not looking hard enough, _mon cher_. Look _closer_."

"First I lose my vision, and now you're having delusions, lovely. What a match we are. Jolly good."

Francis gives up and tsks. "I hope you're not this sour in the morning."

"Anything's possible."

"Oh, Alfred's going to have a fun time with you, I can already tell. _Dieu_ , bless that boy."

But Arthur doesn't believe in blessings and gods. He hardly believes in himself.


	2. Chapter 2

It's morning. It must be. Arthur feels the mattress dip and hears its low creak of protest at being disturbed before it springs back up. He slides a hand to the other side of the bed and frowns when his questing fingers don't find Francis—he must be getting ready to head off to work.

A sudden flash of fear and dread shoots through his nerves, and he has the urge to shout at Francis to come back. If he steps out that front door, who knows what dangers could befall him? A routine traffic stop might become something more. A domestic abuse call could end in tragedy. Troubled youth could act in a moment of fury and passion and do something unspeakable.

Francis could reach for his gun too late. He could be attacked. He could crash the patrol car. He might take one misstep and set off a trap.

He could arrive at the scene of a gas leak and lose more than just his eyesight and the functionality of an arm.

The sense of panic that washes over Arthur suffocates him, and he bolts into a sitting position, chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath and find Francis to plead with him to stay home, where he will be safe and out of harm's way.

"Dad? What's wrong? Are ya gonna be sick or something?" Alfred's voice suddenly chirps from the doorway of the bedroom, and quick, succinct footsteps trace the path to the bedside a second later. "Hey, there… It's all right. No need to freak. Just take a deep breath, okay? Have a bad dream?"

"F-Francis," Arthur chokes out, splaying out his hands and clawing helplessly at the air. He tries to grasp onto anything that might offer him some security, until, at last, he gets his grip around one of Alfred's wrists.

"Papa just left for work, but I'll be here all day to take care of you… Dad? Dad, just relax. It's gonna be fine."

He suffers through a long, pained breath and calms. His hand falls loosely away from Alfred, and he musters what's left of his dignity to reply, "Sorry, my dear boy… Forgive me. All of this has been quite disorienting."

"Nah, don't apologize. It's all good," Alfred merrily replies from somewhere in front of him. "Let's get you some breakfast, and then we can hang out for a bit before I help you get to your appointment with the ophthalmologist."

"That's today?"

"Yup, at one o'clock, and Papa will have my neck if I don't get you there on time," Alfred affirms, hovering and buzzing around the room like a fly, searching for things to touch or tidy up. It's remarkable how mature he's been as of late. "Come on, I know there's nothing wrong with your legs, so get out of bed, old man."

He doesn't know exactly when Alfred got into the habit of calling him 'old man,' but it's grating, to say the least, and try as he might, he probably won't be able to rid himself of the unfortunate pet name anytime soon.

Pledging to make an effort to be cooperative, Arthur takes Alfred's hand and allows himself to be led out of the bedroom and into the bathroom, so he can make a feeble attempt at maintaining some semblance of personal hygiene. He fixes his hair with the comb Alfred puts in his hand, but he can't tell whether or not his ministrations make any actual difference in his physical appearance. Brushing his teeth is just as much of a challenge, but once his toothbrush finds his mouth, the trickiest part is over.

Fortunately, he's still self-sufficient enough to find his way to the toilet without knocking anything over or injuring himself. Alfred gives him some privacy, thank goodness, and then steers him into the kitchen once he's done. Scrambled eggs and toast are already waiting for them on the table, and Arthur must admit he's thoroughly surprised Alfred has orchestrated all of this by himself. He can't remember the last time his son washed the dishes let alone made breakfast for anyone but himself.

"How's the pain? Do the burns hurt?" Alfred suddenly asks as he helps him find his seat, acting as if it's the most natural thing in the world for him to be taking on the role of a caregiver.

"Thank you, Alfred. I'm all right."

"You sure?"

"Yes, you don't need to fuss over me."

Alfred doesn't seem persuaded by that answer, but he ceases the interrogation for the time being to munch loudly on his crunchy toast, which is probably completely smothered in jam and butter. Really, when will the boy learn the value of eating healthy?

"I got some time off of work for the rest of the week, so someone can be home with you while Papa's gone. Mattie's coming over for the weekend, and I'm sure he's gonna offer to stay longer, but he'll havta get back to his classes. I'm a free agent though—sorry to break it to you," Alfred says after a while, clearing his throat awkwardly.

Arthur frowns before attempting to take a careful sip of tea. He's slowly beginning to have a better grasp of spatial relations. Toast is easy enough to eat without making a mess, and the eggs have been strategically placed directly in the center of his plate, so they're easy to find. He's able to bring small, hesitant forkfuls up to his mouth. He knows Alfred must have had the forethought to arrange the food like this on purpose.

And instead of directly handing things to him, Alfred has begun to tell him where things are, and Arthur appreciates being given the chance to handle basic tasks on his own.

"I don't need a babysitter," he says at long last, successfully swallowing a bit of tea before setting the mug down again.

He can hear the smile in Alfred's voice as he replies, "You sure about that? I'm a fun babysitter, I promise. I won't make you do chores or go to bed early."

"Stop it."

"Stop what?"

"You know I despise being spoken to like that."

Alfred sighs, "Oh, lighten up. Being all sad about this situation isn't going to make either of us feel better… That's not what I meant. Look, Dad, I'm sorry… I'm being insensitive. You're going through a lot, and I just want to help, y'know? But I'm not so sure how to help."

"You're doing plenty already, and you don't have to apologize. My temper is getting out of hand, is all," Arthur murmurs, rubbing his forehead. "I don't know what to do myself now that I'm like this, and all I've done thus far is brood."

They sit in silence for a minute or two, until finally, Alfred begins clearing the table and suggests, "Hey, how about we go for a walk before I drive you to the doctor's?"

Arthur agrees because what else is there to do? He can either drag himself around the block a few times or shut himself in the house until he somehow spontaneously recovers his sight.

Alfred helps him into his shoes, gives him his blasted, good-for-nothing walking stick, and then they're off at a leisurely pace. Arthur's not sure where exactly they're going, but he supposes it doesn't matter—anywhere away from the confines of the house will suffice.

He starts by walking without Alfred's assistance and tries to master this whole stick business by scraping it from left to right on the cement a few paces ahead of him. It's simple enough in theory, but Arthur can't get over the pangs of fear in his chest that are demanding to be felt as he strides forward into the uninterrupted darkness. His brain is yelling at him to stop moving, but he fights the instinctual urge and allows his body to trump his mind.

"Oww!" Alfred suddenly yelps, and Arthur realizes with mounting humiliation that he's managed to strike the boy in the foot with the walking stick during his internal struggle.

"I'm sorry, I—"

"No worries, Dad. You just caught me by surprise," Alfred quickly assures, laughing it off. "You okay? Want to hang onto my arm?"

Arthur shakes his head resolutely and swallows all of his qualms. "No, no, I need to get better at this, and I might not always have someone to guide me."

Twice, he almost walks into the middle of traffic, not noticing the dip in the sidewalk and the adjacent curb until Alfred grips his shoulder tightly and yanks him back to safety.

"Just slow down and try to listen for the rush of cars—that's when you'll know you're at the end of the block. I know it's kinda hard because it's quiet around this time of day," Alfred says, trying his best to offer a helpful tidbit without making it sound like he believes Arthur simply isn't making enough of an effort to be alert.

They reach a park, and Alfred mutters something about how they should rest their legs before he guides Arthur through a little winding path lined with trees.

"C'mon, let's sit on the hillside," the boy chirps, adding an extra bounce to his step. "The view of the lake is so pretty and—crap, I'm sorry."

"It's okay. You don't have to censor yourself around me. I can handle it," Arthur retorts, a little irked that he's being treated like he's emotionally fragile. To a certain extent, he's still not a hundred percent in his right mind, but that doesn't mean he'll get upset as soon as someone says something in reference to their own sight.

They get comfortable on a patch of grass overlooking the lake Alfred mentioned, and Arthur lets his other senses kick in to compensate his lack of vision. The earthy, fresh scent of the plants all around is lovely, and he takes a deep breath, letting it fill every part of his lungs. The feeling of grass being smooshed under his weight is also oddly soothing, and he runs his fingers over the prickly blades of grass on either side of him, entranced by a sudden serenity and calm.

And then, Alfred's cellphone rings. The boy swears under his breath and clumsily takes the call, hastily apologizing to Arthur beforehand.

"Hello? Anya, I'm a little busy right now… Uh-huh… I'm with my dad… I know, babe. I'll call you back later… Well, what do you want me to do about _that_? I'll stop by tonight when I get the chance. Talk to you soon."

He hangs up, and Arthur turns his head in the direction of the boy's voice and quirks a brow at him. "Is something wrong?"

"Nah, don't worry about it. Anya's just getting on my case again over something dumb," Alfred mumbles, stuffing his phone back into his pocket. "I know you're not her biggest fan, but she's… She's a good person, really."

Arthur softly says, "As long as she makes you happy, that's all that matters."

"Yeah, I know, but I just wish you and Papa would give her more of a chance. I know you won't openly come out and say I should stop dating her, but I can tell when you guys don't approve of someone... I care what you both think."

"We want what's best for you," Arthur replies simply.

"Yeah, that's parent talk for 'we think you're making a giant mistake, but we don't want to tell you how to live your life, so we're just gonna stand back and let you learn the hard way,'" Alfred snorts, cracking his knuckles. "Man, oh man... It's so easy for you guys. You've already got your lives figured out—got married, had kids, got some careers. Meanwhile, I'm gonna be working at that damned gym forever. I'm starting to realize I don't have a future. Maybe college isn't for everyone, and maybe I'm just destined to be an average guy without any dreams or anything."

"Don't say that. You know it isn't true. You have your entire life ahead of you, Alfred. Just because you don't have all of the answers right now doesn't mean you never will. Papa and I have merely been upset because we want to make sure you have a bright and fulfilling future, and sometimes, our worries can come off as anger."

Alfred sighs and murmurs, "It's okay. You don't have to lie to me. I know you guys think I'm lazy and don't want to do anything meaningful with my life, and you're probably both right."

Something in Arthur's heart feels like it's being squeezed. "Alfred, my boy, we love you. While we may seem frustrated at times, we still believe you'll find your way."

"More parent talk for 'we don't want you to think you're a disappointment, but you kind of are,'" Alfred supplies.

Arthur clicks his tongue and huffs. "You'll understand when you're a parent someday."

"Sorry to break it to you, but I'm never going to be a parent. That life's not for me."

"You'll change your mind when you're older."

"How can you be so sure?"

"I know this may come as a shock to you, but I was once nineteen, too."

Alfred feigns a gasp and touches Arthur's shoulder dramatically. "You mean you weren't born a middle-aged adult? Whoa!"

"Riveting, isn't it?"

"Well, color me surprised! Who would've thought? Man, I thought as soon as I turned eighteen—poof—I'd be an adult ready to get my whole life together and whatnot, but I feel like a little kid more and more each day."

"That's because you're still a child—I can feel you glaring at me. I don't mean it in a malicious way. Every person your age is a child," Arthur asserts, leaning his head back. "You'd be surprised what a difference a few years can make. Give it time."

Alfred ponders this for a while and doesn't shoot back any snarky replies although he's most likely tempted to do so. "When did you start feeling like an actual adult?"

Arthur searches through his memories and says, "As you know, entry level police officers are often given the menial assignments no one else wants to deal with—traffic control, patrols around the neighborhood, answering minor, non-life threatening complaints—and my job during the winter was to drive around and pick up individuals who were homeless. This usually happened when there was a major snowstorm in the forecast, and I would take these people either to the nearest shelter or hospital, depending on their physical state."

"On one of these nights, I encountered a woman with her five-year-old daughter. They were huddled behind a public school building, and they were both suffering from hypothermia and frostbite in their extremities. The mother's first instinct was to grab her daughter and run, but I assured them they weren't in any legal trouble, and that I only wanted to help. Of course, she didn't trust me, and so, I took one of the blankets I had piled in the patrol car and offered it to them without requesting anything else of them. It wasn't in my power to demand they come with me—I'd been ordered to respect anyone's refusal."

Arthur pauses to take another deep breath and draws his brows together. "But I didn't want to leave them there in the freezing cold either. I knew I wouldn't be able to sleep that night if I hadn't done everything possible to try to get them to cooperate. So, I went into a nearby coffee shop and bought a cup of coffee for the mother and some hot chocolate for the child. And then, I sat next to them, already chilled to the bone myself, and spoke with them for a while. I had been taught in training how to approach people and make them feel as though I was an equal, but it's much easier to read about it from a textbook than to put it into practice."

"I asked the woman if she had any friends or family to stay with. Naturally, she didn't. I noticed her daughter had a children's book lying beside her and asked the girl if that was her favorite book. She told me it was, and then began to animatedly tell me about the characters and how the story took place in Paris and how she'd love to travel there someday. I stowed away my distaste for France in general and told her I'd been to Paris once, and how I'd seen Notre-Dame and the Eiffel Tower. We continued talking for about fifteen minutes or so, and my nose was already running from the cold. I couldn't fathom how these people had managed to sit outdoors all day."

"Finally, I feebly asked them if they would allow me to take them to a hospital, and although they seemed uncertain, the promise of warmth and food seemed to be too enticing for them to reject, and they followed me back to the patrol car. I imagine the mother was terrified that her daughter would be taken away from her, and it is likely they were separated after being treated, but I can't be sure, as I wasn't updated on their case… I think the mother ultimately agreed to take that risk for her daughter's safety and well-being, and making such a decision must have taken a great deal of strength… I think seeing that made me aware of the consequences of my job, and although it might've made me more cynical than I had been before, I felt, for the very first time, like an adult with a sense of duty and responsibility."

Alfred doesn't seem to know what to say, and a tense silence follows until the boy whispers, "We should get going, or you'll be late to your appointment."

Arthur doesn't argue and lets him lead the way.

* * *

It isn't busy at the ophthalmologist's office. In fact, it's fairly empty aside from two or three other patients. Within ten minutes, Arthur is called inside, and Alfred helps him down the hallway and into one of the exam rooms. He gets him settled on the exam table and asks if Arthur would like him to wait outside for confidentiality purposes, but Arthur assures him it's all right if he stays—he doesn't mind the extra pair of ears.

And honestly, Arthur would prefer to have the presence of someone else in the room. Lately, he can't bear the thought of being left alone.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen," the doctor says as he comes inside, warm and cheerful. "I heard you were in quite the accident, Arthur, but we'll do whatever we can to get you back to normal. I'm going to take off your bandages to see the extent of the damage."

Arthur hisses when the compression bandage falls away and the gauze comes off of his wounds because the cool air of the exam room makes the injuries sting a little. He peels his eyelids open, and to his surprise, he can differentiate some spots of light and dark.

The doctor flashes a light at one eye and then the other, and Arthur can see the bright patches followed by the shadows of the light's retreat. The doctor says this is a good sign.

"Your eyes are healing well. I'm willing to bet you'll recover at least some of your vision with enough time."

"How much time?" Arthur asks, and it's the question that's been on his mind since he woke up in the hospital.

"I'd say you should see some noticeable improvements within six months to a year."

A year of not being on the force… A year of blindness… That's a hell of a long time.

He swallows against the rock in his throat and nods, feeling a little lightheaded. He hadn't expected a quick recovery, and yet, hearing the official verdict is harder to accept than he thought it would be.

After a few more tests and the placement of some fresh bandages, he's free to go and is scheduled for a follow-up appointment next month. Alfred leads him out to the car, and once they're seated, Alfred lets out a terse breath and murmurs, "I'm sorry, Dad... I know you were hoping it wouldn't take so long."

"It's all right."

"No, it's not. You have a right to be upset."

"Being upset isn't going to change anything," Arthur snaps back.

He spends the rest of the day in the bedroom again, sapped of all strength and willpower. When Francis comes home for dinner, he forces himself to eat and then proceeds to vomit half an hour later, sick to his stomach. As he agonizes over the nausea in the bathroom, Francis and Alfred hover outside the door, whispering to each other about what to do.

Arthur wishes he could just curl up and die.

* * *

"How is he? Is he feeling any better since you called me?" Matthew asks when he arrives home for the weekend, barely stepping into the foyer before he's inquiring about Arthur, unbelievably worried.

"He barely comes downstairs anymore," Francis mumbles. "I've scheduled him to go for some counseling later this week—hopefully it'll help. He's depressed, and both Alfred and I have tried talking to him, but it hasn't done any good. He hasn't been eating, isn't able to sleep at night, and only goes outside when he has to. Alfred downloaded some music and audiobooks on his phone for him, and it seems to have brightened his mood at least somewhat."

It's Matthew's turn to try to get through to his father. He sits with him in the bedroom for a while, and tries to talk about everything but his eyes. Of course, Arthur is happy to see him and tries to do his best to be pleasant company, yet, it's clear something isn't right. As much as Arthur tries to tell him everything is all right, they all know it's not. Something in his voice has changed, and the man just doesn't seem to have any energy in him.

In the end, Matthew comes back downstairs feeling more distraught than before. He buries his face in the sleeve of his sweater to muffle his crying, and Francis holds him in a hug, feeling just as helpless.

Alfred watches them with a growing frown and decides he needs to get some air for a while. He heads over to Anya's place on the opposite end of town, where she lives in a small house with two older roommates.

"How's your father?"

"Not any better," Alfred tells her, collapsing on the couch and putting his feet on the coffee table. "I don't know what to do anymore. There's so much drama going on, and it's all kinda tiring. I know that sounds really selfish and dumb to say because I'm not the one who's blind, but it honestly feels like I'm the next one that's gonna be depressed."

"That's normal. Grief is hard on everyone, not just the person who's experiencing it," Anya replies, sounding uncharacteristically mature. "Maybe your dad needs to pick up a hobby or find something to keep him busy."

"He can barely get himself out of bed. I don't see how he's going to start doing arts and crafts or something," Alfred scoffs. "I know this is a weird thing to say, but I feel like it's partially my fault he's like this. He worries a lot about me, and I think he feels like he's failed me somehow because I dropped out of school. He doesn't realize none of that has anything to do with him—it's just me being difficult."

"Did you tell him that?"

"I tried. Getting him to listen is another story."

"Maybe show him how much you appreciate him, then."

"How?"

Anya hums in thought and says, "Be there for him."

"That's what I've been doing."

"Well, keep doing it and try harder."

Alfred shoots Anya an offended expression. "Are you saying I'm not trying hard enough already?"

"Obviously not if your dad's still depressed."

"It doesn't matter how hard I try, the only one who can stop him from being depressed is himself."

"See, that's the problem," Anya points out, holding up a hand to get Alfred to shut up. "You're blaming him for being unhappy and saying it's his own fault. If you have that attitude, you'll never be able to help him. Be a little more compassionate."

Alfred sighs a defeated sigh. "You're probably right… Thanks… I can always count on you to criticize me and put me in my place," he jokes.

"Anytime."

"My parents hate you, you know. They think you're keeping me from going back to school and that you're a bad influence."

"I know," Anya retorts, nonchalant. "They're right."

"Mmm… I think that's why I love you so much."

Anya rolls her eyes and shoves him in the shoulder roughly. "Go back home. Your family needs you. You should stay away from me, Alfred. You should listen to your parents. I'm only going to break your heart."

Alfred smirks coyly, leans over to press a kiss to Anya's forehead and says, "I know."


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note:** Thanks for sticking with me on this three-shot, guys. I know the updates were slow, but you'll be able to read a lot more from me soon, I promise. Thanks again to **saraalmezel** for this request! I hope you guys enjoyed it.

* * *

Francis is up to something.

Arthur hasn't figured out exactly what that something is, but a feeling of foreboding uncertainty follows him around all that evening, and Alfred and Matthew aren't helping to snuff out his suspicions either. They've been striking up relentless conversations with him and keeping him from inquiring too much about Francis's whereabouts. If he had his eyesight, he'd be able to get to the bottom of this in a matter of minutes. Unfortunately, he has to rely on far fewer investigative clues now.

When Alfred forbids him from going outside to smoke a cigarette in the weary twilight of the sky, that's when Arthur decides he's had enough and will force an answer out of the boy if he must.

"What on earth is going on? You know how much I loathe surprises."

"It's nothing, Dad. It's just chilly out today, and I don't want you getting sick or anything, you know?"

"It's the beginning of May, lad. I'm sure I'll be quite all right... Is that music coming from the porch?" Arthur asks with a deepening frown, focusing his ears on the soft hum of acoustic guitar and piano melodies coming from the other side of the front door.

Matthew comes to Alfred's rescue and is about to deliver a well-thought out excuse, except right in that moment, Francis finally decides to let in on his little plot.

"Okay, boys! You can let him come out here now," Francis chimes from the porch, and the twins hastily swing the door open and practically shove Arthur outside.

Before Arthur even has the chance to clear his throat to properly scold Francis for all of this nonsensical hiding and strange behavior, his husband's hands are on both of his shoulders and guiding him into the rocking chair at the end of the porch. He lets out a swoosh of breath as he sits and notices the scent of spiced candles, hot, saccharine pastries, and earl grey tea.

He hears Francis sit across from him with a lofty laugh, his knees cracking. "I thought I'd take you out on this lovely evening, mon _coeur_ , but I knew you wouldn't appreciate wandering too far away from the house, so this will have to do. There's a plate of warm blueberry pie in front of you—freshly baked by yours truly—and a cup of tea to the right. Your fork is to the left, try reaching out for it... Yes, that's it. You've got it."

Arthur takes a grumpy bite of pie and softens considerably upon realizing just how exquisite it tastes, matching exactly what his palate seemed to have needed.

"Is it good?" Francis asks, sounding worried.

"Yes."

"Hmm... I guess it must be if it has managed to put a smile on your face," Francis replies brightly.

Arthur discovers that, yes, he is, in fact, smiling. His lips are quirked upward ever so slightly—he can feel the difference. He makes a point to try to push down his mouth into a straight line again, but the task proves to be difficult.

"You look wonderful tonight, _mon cher_."

"Ahh, yes, I'm sure the bandages bring out my eyes," Arthur huffs.

"You know I didn't mean it that way. You're always handsome to me, and there's not a thing in the world that could change my mind," Francis insists, leaning over the table to peck a kiss directly onto Arthur's nose with a grin of his own. "Try some of your tea now. I made it just the way you like it with a splash of milk."

Arthur already knows the tea is going to be fine before he even takes a sip. Francis has mastered the art of preparing it over many years of trial and error. The tea, thankfully, isn't hot enough to burn his tongue. It's just warm enough for him to feel it travel down his chest as he swallows, leaving his stomach content.

"I know you haven't been yourself lately, and I hoped this might help," Francis explains in a gentle tone, chewing on his own piece of pie. "I know you'll get through this, darling. There isn't any doubt in my mind. I thought you should know that."

Oh, no. He's being sentimental. This means Arthur will have to begrudgingly allow himself to feel something as well. He swallows all of his self-deprecating and bitter feelings just long enough to croak, "Thank you, Francis."

"You're always welcome."

"I-I'm sorry I've been nothing but a thorn in everyone's side lately."

"You're not a thorn, _mon amour_. Don't think such ugly thoughts," Francis murmurs, taking his hand. "Let's not think about anything that's happened in the last few weeks, all right? We have this beautiful night before us, and we don't want it to pass us by, do we? Ahh... I can't believe how it seems like just yesterday I was still in France, running my great aunt's dusty bakery for a little over a dollar an hour. Those were simpler times, but I'd never want to go back. Arthur, I wouldn't have things any other way if we got to do it all over again."

"Me neither," Arthur admits, slumping forward with fatigue. "Thank you for being here, even when I'm at my worst."

Francis chuckles lightly at him and pulls his chair closer so they can rest on each other. "That's what a husband is for—in sickness and in health, _non_? I know you'd be doting over me if I were in your position, so don't complain when I do it to you."

"If I didn't complain, then you would know something was truly wrong with me."

"Point taken," Francis laughs again before dropping a chunk of pie in Arthur's mouth, feeding it to him.

Arthur sighs and lets himself relax, muscles loosening as Francis casts the hair from his forehead aside. "The boys are eavesdropping on us, by the way. I can hear them snickering from the window."

"I know, and I was wondering if you had noticed... Alfred! Matthew! We raised you better than this!"

The scampering of two sets of feet from inside the house a moment later makes them both shake their heads and chuckle.

* * *

Emotions are tedious. Arthur didn't think he was even capable of displaying or feeling them, but apparently, he's just as human as everyone else.

He attends grief counseling sessions twice a week. Truth be told, it seems silly and pointless. How is an hour long discussion about all of his gripes and weaknesses supposed to magically pull him out of depression? And yes, he is depressed—what a bother. He doesn't have time to be depressed. He should be recovering and trying to resume his position on the police force as soon as possible, but instead, he's been wasting time in therapists' offices, stuck talking about a condition he doesn't want to admit to having because he doesn't think admitting it will make him feel any better anyway.

Alfred, on the other hand, couldn't be more thrilled with the prospect of the therapy sessions. When Arthur gets weekly assignments to complete at home with his loved ones from said therapist, Alfred is completely on board. This week, he's received a series of "mutual interview questions" that he's supposed to answer with another person, and though Arthur really doesn't want to bother with the ridiculous homework, Alfred insists they take it seriously and put in an effort.

Of course, there's no way Arthur can tackle the assignment on his own even if he wanted to because he can't even see the list of questions. Thus, having an extra person join in is a necessity.

"Who doesn't want to answer some really introspective questions in the middle of the day? I'll get us some snacks and we can mull them over in the kitchen. Sound good?" Alfred cheerily suggests.

"No," Arthur scoffs.

"Aww, turn that frown upside down, and let's do this. It'll be a blast. Here, let me see the first question as the icebreaker," Alfred urges, tapping a finger on the sheet of paper Arthur received from the therapist. "What have we got here…? Okay, so this isn't really a question. It's more of a fill-in-the-blank type of thing. ' _Something I fixate on is..._ ' Hmm. I'd have to say I fixate on making sure the customers at the gym wipe down the machines after they finish working out. If I don't stay on top of that stuff and act a bit paranoid, someone's gonna get ringworm, and the next thing I know, I'll have to testify in court because there'll be some kind of lawsuit."

Arthur lets out a short laugh, amused. "I don't think that's what the question meant, Alfred, but I suppose we can interpret it to mean whatever we'd like."

"Hey, I'm just being honest. All right, here's another one. Now it's your turn. ' _I've always wanted…_ '"

Arthur isn't fond of this game, to say the least. He wants to skip to the next question, but he has a sneaking suspicion Alfred won't let him pass the baton so easily. With a resigned sigh, he mutters, "I have everything I could possibly ever need."

"But there's gotta be something else you want."

"I'd like to recover my sight, everything else is secondary."

Alfred begins to chide him about how that isn't a real answer, but he doesn't push the matter any further. He simply jumps into the next question. "' _If a friend was asked to describe your outlook on life, what's the first thing they would say?_ ' They'd definitely say I'm a go-with-the-flow kind of dude, but I worry too much about what other people think. Opinions matter to me, for sure. Next question, ' _When do you feel most happy?_ '"

It's surprising to see Alfred being so honest, and it compels Arthur to return the favor, "When we're able to spend time as a family."

Alfred lets a small laugh loose and slouches over the kitchen table, coming up close. Arthur can feel the stare of the young man's round, blue eyes on him, and it's as though he can see him as clearly as the day, imagining those wire-framed glasses and upraised brows.

"You're such an old sap. Never change," Alfred whispers, barely loud enough to be heard.

* * *

Anya comes over for dinner.

After a shocking invitation on Papa's part, Alfred arranges for them to finally all sit down together and get to know one another. It's odd because for the longest time, he figured his parents wouldn't want the girl to pay a visit, considering how much they have expressed their distaste of her in the past. Something, however, has changed, and Alfred has reason to believe Dad had a role to play in all of it.

He doesn't know why Dad has miraculously changed his stance on the issue, but sometimes, it's better not to ask, and frankly, Alfred doesn't think knowing the man's motives will change anything anyway.

So, at five o'clock sharp, the doorbell rings, and Matthew goes to open the door, affable although somewhat timid. He greets Anya, introduces himself politely and briefly, unable to keep a conversation going for too long, and leads her into the kitchen to see the rest of the gang. Alfred gives her a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek, Papa shakes her hand and pulls out a chair for her, and Dad bows his head in her direction, seeming as though he would like to be more welcoming and a better host, but not being able to see the guest makes it complicated.

Papa serves them, bustling back and forth and around the table, refilling glasses and striking up merry, energetic topics of discussion, shattering the worst of the ice. Alfred joins in on the effort, trying to make Anya feel at home, but it soon becomes clear that Anya doesn't need help adapting to the house and the family—her charisma and magnetism do the job for her. She's full of smiles and anecdotes, sharing little tidbits of information about herself and delving into fun stories about her childhood and where she grew up in Russia before moving to the U.S. and staying with an aunt of hers before finally finding a place with roommates out here in suburban Pennsylvania.

"It must not have been easy, leaving the remainder of your family behind," Papa notes.

Anya opens her mouth, closes it, and opens it again with a hitched intake of breath, searching for an appropriate response, until she settles on a short, "Yes."

An hour later, it's almost impossible for Alfred to recall his parents ever having said a negative word about Anya. They are so enamored by her, and though they are a bit disappointed when they hear Anya doesn't have any plans to go on to college, they still treat her respectfully and with warmth. Papa goes off on a tangent about a series of his own young, early-life romances, which makes Dad pretty grumpy, but it's all lighthearted and fun all the same.

Anya leaves a great impression, and then, she's gone too quickly for Alfred's liking, mentioning something about having to help her roommate run some errands before leaving and bidding everyone goodnight.

Alfred watches her trot down the driveway in her high-heels and frowns, feeling as though something isn't quite right although dinner turned out to be way better than he'd anticipated.

Oh, well. He can always ask what's bugging her later.

* * *

Matthew gets a hold of some home videos one day as he offers to help clean the storage closet where Dad hoards all of his memorabilia, and of course, his curiosity gets the best of him, and he puts on one of the DVDs, smiling when the screen comes alive with color. In the video, Dad's holding the camera while Papa is dusting the living room shelves in the background, but the star of the show is baby Matthew himself, who is plopped down on the couch and toiling over some artwork on the coffee-table.

" _What do you have there, Matthew?"_ Dad asks, and his voice sounds the same as it does now, except maybe it's a little less tired.

" _Crayons,"_ baby Matthew replies, voice ringing through the television's speakers. His three-year-old mouth still jumbles words together and stumbles over sentences as well as grammar.

" _Are you going to draw a picture for Papa and me?"_

" _Uh-huh!"  
_

" _Do you know what you're going to draw?"_

" _Snowman!"_ baby Matthew cries out, picking up a blue crayon and sticking a thumb in his mouth.

Dad carefully reaches down and pries the questing thumb away. " _When we finally get some snow, we can build a snowman outside in the yard."_

" _Snow! Snow! Lots 'a snow!"_

Just then, a shrill wail echoes off from somewhere in the distance, and the camera jiggles in Dad's hand as he sighs, " _Alfred's up from his nap."_

Dad takes the camera with him as he goes upstairs and wanders into the nursery, where a cherry-faced and pouting Alfred is sulking after having had a nightmare. _"Shhh, shh, my boy. There's no need for all of these tears. I'm here. It's all right now."_

But Alfred continues to cry and cry, and so, Dad puts the camera down and takes him into his arms, bouncing him up and down. _"There's no need for such a fuss… There, there… Nothing's going to hurt you."_

The DVD pauses suddenly and freezes, and Matthew tsks, wishing he could have watched a little more of the exchange. He puts the DVD back in its original casing and tucks it away, hiding the evidence when suddenly, he hears a loud bang from the master bedroom and runs up to check on Dad. He's supposed to be on caretaking duty today while Papa and Alfred are at work.

"Everything all right?" Matthew asks as he pops into the room and sees Dad rubbing his head fervently. "Did you hit your head on the bookshelf again?"

Dad turns red with embarrassment and nods, "I always forget about the bloody thing."

Matthew laughs sympathetically and pats his shoulder. "I'll get you some ice… It's all right. Nothing's going to hurt you."

* * *

Their one-year anniversary is coming up.

Alfred has been brainstorming possible things to do with Anya, aside from sticking to the customary date night ideas like going to the movies or getting dinner. He wants this anniversary to be special because he needs to shower someone else with appreciation to feel a little less cold inside. He needs to bring cheer back into his world after all that has been going on at home, since he can't stand the sorrowful air and mourning anymore. He needs to feel something other than helplessness and fear for the future.

Which is why this anniversary can't be anything short of jaw-dropping.

Anya insists he shouldn't put too much thought and concern into it—that there are more important matters at the moment—but Alfred won't listen to any of these offhanded dismissals. He's going to go above and beyond, and he wants to be able to prove to Anya he's not going to be suave and put together just for one day out of the year. No, he's going to get his whole life together and start working on improving himself both inside and out to show her he's serious about taking their relationship to the next step.

He fills out an application to enroll back in school for the next semester. For a good while, he doesn't tell anyone about it, until he's certain it's been made official. He's still not sure what he wants to study, but he figures he can dabble in some more classes and figure it out along the way. He'd like to think all of his pre-med credits haven't gone to waste, and so, maybe it would be wise to stay within the realm of medicine but do something less stiff and uppity. The thought of being a doctor makes him want to puke, but working as a nutritionist or some kind of health counselor doesn't sound as bad. It's less intense, leaves a little more room for freedom, and doesn't seem as daunting to him.

Once he has been accepted for the fall term, he finally lets his parents know. As expected, they couldn't be happier with his decision to continue his education.

But Anya… Anya doesn't seem as happy.

He tells her about it exactly three days before their anniversary because he can't keep it a secret any longer, even though he would have preferred to have surprised her on their big day together. He swoops down and catches her in a hug, tells her he's going to be a boyfriend she can be proud of, and she just stands there tersely, not saying a single word.

"What's wrong? Did I do something to make you upset?" Alfred asks, genuinely confused and hurt.

"No, no, my sunflower. It's nothing like that," Anya murmurs against his ear, finally returning the hug. "I think we need to talk."

"Uh-oh, that doesn't sound good. Just tell me what I did wrong, and I'll fix it—I promise."

"No, Alfred, none of this is your fault. It's all mine… I realize now how selfish I've been," Anya begins to explain, running her hand gently down his arm, as though she's worried holding him will somehow break him. "You have your whole life ahead of you, a family that loves you, and so many opportunities. I, on the other hand, don't have any of those things. I'm going to be stuck in this silly little house with my semi-tolerable roommates forever, but you have a chance to get out—to do something greater, and I'm keeping you away from that. I need to let you grow, and you can't do that while you're with me."

"What are you talking about? Of course I can do it while I'm with you!"

"No, Alfred, you don't understand… I wouldn't be able to stand it to think that I wouldn't be able to keep up with your successes. I know things will only get harder from here, and I can't let ourselves continue down this road because we're both going to get hurt. I need to be here, in this suburbia, but you have so much more waiting out there for you, and you have a dad who needs you now more than ever. I'm sorry, my sunflower."

Alfred's voice cracks as he insists, "Anya, don't do this. You're exaggerating."

"You deserve someone better," Anya murmurs before turning away. "Close the door on your way out."

Alfred stands there, dumbstruck. All of this worrying about trying to make their relationship feasible and long-lasting, and this is what it all leads to? A dead end?

The walk home never seemed so long.

* * *

"It's because of me, isn't it?"

"No, don't blame yourself. It has nothing to do with you."

"Nevertheless, I'm sorry. Truly."

"Don't be, Dad."

Alfred thought he'd be more upset than this. When he'd first stepped out onto the street earlier that morning, he'd wanted to dive into a full-fledged fit of rage, apoplectic with anger. He planned to break something or kick a fire hydrant—anything to get rid of the burning, sour taste of disappointment and regret in his veins.

And then he'd considered going back to Anya and begging her to give him another chance. He would've dropped down on his knees with a bouquet of flowers, and maybe she would have reconsidered once she saw how heartbroken he was, but now that he's had some time to cool off, he doesn't think that would've gone over so well. Anya was clear about how she felt, and no matter how much willpower and tenacity he exerts, he can't make her love him if she can't. He has to respect her feelings. He just worries that her feelings are misplaced.

"Is there anything I can do?"

"Nah, you just keep trying to get better, okay?"

"Are you all right?" Dad frets, unable to help himself from showing concern.

Alfred swallows hard and tries to make sure his tone doesn't waver when he says, "No, but I will be. Hey, it's about time I change your bandages. How about we do that?"

"It can wait."

"No, it's best to get it over with now, right? I'll be right back. Don't move."

He jogs upstairs, heads for the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, and finds some fresh rolls of gauze to work with. One of them slips out of his hand, and he has to take a few steps back and bend over to pick it up, managing to stub his toe in the process. His throbbing toe is the final straw he needs to explode, and he swears as loudly as he dares, shouting vulgarities without knowing who he's shouting them at—perhaps himself.

Dad finds his way to him, bandages already unraveled and taken away from his eyes, so that two mottled green orbs try to meet his gaze.

His father's hand clasps his shoulder, and he jumps at the contact, stunned. "It's okay, lad…"

"How'd you know my shoulder was there?"

Dad pulls him into a hug, drops his chin, and mumbles hoarsely, "I'm getting my vision back."

* * *

Arthur wishes he could say losing his sight gave him some kind of epiphany he'd never had before and made him a better person on an irreversible level. He wishes he could say he appreciates life more, or his eyes, or the colors in the sky at dawn, but he's not sure he does. He wants to say the whole experience has given him a stronger spirit, but it hasn't. He's still just Arthur—irritable, cynical, fretting Arthur. It's who he always has been and always will be.

His vision comes back in slow increments. The first months show the most noticeable improvements, followed by the tinier changes like how blurs of washed out colors begin to get a little crisper in the fifth month of his recovery. In six months, he's able to make out shapes and a limited amount of hues. He can navigate his silverware and eat without difficulty. He can tie his shoes and see the street just well enough to know where it ends and whether any cars are coming, but he still carries his walking stick with him wherever he goes as a precaution, feeling his way around when things are too fuzzy or he's in a crowded area and there are too many shapes to distinguish one from the other.

Around this time, Alfred gets through most of his fall semester at school again. He settles on studying physical therapy, which seems to strike the balance between his desire to help people without having the title of "doctor" attached to his name. He tries to mend things with Anya upwards of three times, but all of his attempts come up short, until finally, his heart begins to heal, and Arthur wants to tell him there will be other fish in the sea, but that's cliché and might come off as sounding insensitive.

Thankfully, he doesn't have to pull out his list of clichés for long, because during his fifth or sixth try of appeasing Anya, Alfred gets her to reconsider their fractured relationship. For now, they will take some time off and see where their paths guide them, and Alfred is sure his path will lead back to her eventually, and so, it is a hard-fought victory on his part.

While Arthur hasn't changed much from this accident, he knows Alfred has. The boy is a completely different person, possessing a maturity Arthur has never seen in him before. He is growing up, and even though this is what Arthur has wanted for his son all of this time, to see him actually transform into a man is a tad bittersweet because it means his role as a father won't be the same anymore. He will still be here to support Alfred in everything he does, but he'll no longer have the same influence and impact on the boy that he used to have. No more setting curfews and grounding Alfred for making mistakes and being foolish.

No, now it's time for Alfred to discipline himself and to learn to lead a life that will someday be entirely his own. The thought makes Arthur both immensely proud and terrified at once.

Somehow, a full year passes him by, and after many doctor's appointments and highs and lows in terms of his sanity and emotional stability, the improvements to his vision reach a plateau. It becomes apparent that his sight will never be as it once was. He'll always see the world through a foggy lens or grainy film, but it beats the darkness. He worries what this'll mean for his future as an officer, but with a little help from Francis, he's able to get a position as an instructor at a police academy, which is the closest he's going to get to being a part of law enforcement again. It's enough, and Arthur can't complain after having spent over a year unemployed and dying of ennui at home.

Soon enough, he'll retire and get Francis to take him to some island close to the equator for a long vacation, and he's looking forward to it. They deserve a break, and now that both Matthew and Alfred are on the right track and will be able to support themselves in due time, Arthur can think about old age and how to make certain he and Francis live the rest of their lives surrounding themselves with simple sources of happiness and stop worrying about the little, insignificant stresses of their daily routines.

They'll be responsibility-free and old enough to get away with having a little careless fun now and then.

A call from Alfred at that moment, however, pauses his thoughts.

"Hey, Dad? Quick question. Can Papa do my taxes for me again this year because I'm looking at these forms, and I think I'm about to have an aneurysm."

Arthur smiles and allows himself a short sigh. So maybe he can't allow himself to be responsibility-free just yet. The boys might need him for a little longer. "And what are you going to do when papa isn't around to help you file your taxes?"

"Get an accountant," Alfred retorts.

"Accountants aren't exactly cheap."

"So I hope I'll have a wife who's a whiz at financial stuff."

The boy has an answer for everything, or so he thinks. He has plenty left to learn, and Arthur thinks back to that day of lying on the pavement with flames all around, and thanks the universe for sparing him and for not taking anything more than his vision. It is a small price to pay for being allowed to continue his role as a father.

Things will get better, of this he is confident, but the journey is far from over.

"All right, Alfred. I'll speak to Papa tonight."

"Thanks, Dad. You're the best."

And he can finally see what he couldn't see before. It's what Francis was talking about all those arduous months ago—love. It's right there, beaming back at him with light and immense warmth.

He sees it.


End file.
